If It Were Only Monsters in My Sleep
by Elfreida
Summary: Shadows are always full. Turn off the light, and there they are - the secrets, the truths...once you fall, they'll never leave you. Even if the secrets hurt and the truth is impossible. But this is nothing new to Sherlock Holmes - add in the Spy, the Woman and a certain army doctor he can't seem to live without...a hidden heart for moriarty to burn (and that's only the obvious...)
1. An Improbable Case

**01. An Improbable Case**

_**London, 2:46 am, October 12**__**th**__** 2013.**_

The night was full of storms. It had been dark and watery the night Sherlock returned, too. The sky mirrored the turmoil of emotions currently clouding John Watson's head; confused and…well, dark. Like shadows, twisting in ribbons through his head. He couldn't help but draw similarities tonight.

* * *

_(October 5__th__)_

– _It had all started with a man stumbling breathless through the door of 221B, twitching and staring, claiming to have travelled through a time portal. John had been entirely ready to dismiss the man as a paranoid schizophrenic, but Sherlock had been Sherlock. He acted as if he'd never left (as he'd been doing ever since he'd got back) and insisted the man tell him every detail: the man was a runaway from a Yemeni terrorist sect. Was lucid and telling the truth. Was from the future (the man believed that, anyway)._

* * *

John could feel the rain soaking through the material on his shoulders; dripping down his back. His skin felt brittle. It was bitterlycold. Somehow, though, he couldn't bring himself to seek shelter.

* * *

– _Oh, they'd gone to Lestrade with the ex-future-Yemeni terrorist. They needed somewhere to put him and Sherlock was genuinely intrigued. But no one at New Scotland Yard believed a word (surprisingly). Even the DI – newly reinstated following Sherlock's exoneration due to the influence of a certain sibling – wanted simply to send him on his way to the nearest psyche ward. Until the man, becoming more and more agitated by the minute, started babbling about a hostage. _

_A woman. _

_MI5. _

_Agent Anna Harper. _

_Held for eight months, captured along with SAS technician Nicholas Eric (who was later executed by the group). Recon expert, extremely dangerous; sent to observe and find a way to stop the development of a particular piece of technology (the time portal machine). He described the operation in great detail for the limited number of people who were actually listening._

* * *

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Um…you okay?"

_Raindrops on the tarmac._

"I don't know, Greg."

* * *

_- When it came to describing what happened to Anna Harper however…the man was coherent enough describing the events leading to her capture (and what sort of information she'd managed to obtain) but then the man started shaking. His eyes had unfocussed and it'd become almost impossible to decipher what he was saying. It was enough, however, to assume she was dead. _

_John remembered hoping she was dead. _

_Sherlock had postulated a trauma brought on by involvement in a genuine organisation and that Anna Harper probably _did_ exist (or had, as the case may be). They went away, come back, searched the man intensively, went away again, and, to everyone's growing apprehension, come to the conclusion that the man didn't exist. There was no record of him ever _having _existed. No record of his birth or terrorist involvement (they accessed Mycroft's intelligence in Yemen) and none of the places he described._

_They were stumped. _

_More than one person decided to default back to position one: the man was a loon who needed to be sent back to whatever hospital he wondered off from. Donovan didn't help in the slightest by shouting at Sherlock and continuing the argument which had raged on and off since his grand return. To which John responded with a defence that surprised even him (given what the selfish git had put him through). It must have been reflex._

* * *

"John…look I know it's not for me to say, but you _have_ to talk to him."

The ex-army doctor avoided the pointed look and stared hard at the ground. It glittered black and gold beneath the streetlamp.

"John?"

"What?"

The DI sighed heavily, voice becoming suddenly very quiet.

"Just talk to him John."

"There's nothing to say. Nothing at all. Why –" His voice cut short. He didn't know whether he was about to break down or start shouting.

_Home. _

He couldn't avoid him at home, though. _Sherlock…_

* * *

_(October 7__th__)_

– _Mycroft had shown an unusual amount of interest after a few days of them taking the case. At first, John thought it had to do with operations in the Middle East. He seemed…worried. Genuinely. After a few days, John started worrying too. Because it was impossible for Mycroft Holmes (of all people) to get emotionally invested in his work, wasn't it? Then the murders started. _

_An office woman, late thirties; cyanide poisoning. _

_A man, early fifties, courier; shot in the head with a sniper rifle. _

_A pair of girls, fourteen and fifteen, both died instantly from explosives planted in shopping bags (one other critically injured – later to die – in the same bombing). _

_In total, there were twelve bodies: all obviously murdered, nothing connecting them save for the fact that they each died within thirty-six hours of one another. The most horrifying thing of all was the lack of any leads whatsoever. No CCTV, no evidence left at any of the crime scenes, no slip-ups with IDs or witness recognition. _

_Nothing._

_Even Sherlock's observations turned up a blank, though John later suspected he'd worked it out already. Looking back on the fear; the confusion. The looks he gave to John when he thought John wasn't looking. It was the pattern that must've given it away – a dozen murders, all independent, yet all co-ordinated. All different, yet together they made a whole: a web pointing towards the centre…_

* * *

John's head snapped up. Without explanation to Lestrade, he turned and marched back across the wet carpark, through the doors of the YHA fitness club, and shivered in the blast of warm air. He didn't realise he'd stopped until his leg all but crumpled beneath him.

"John!"

"I'm fine! I'm fine, Greg, just…"

"I'm taking you to the canteen and you're _going_ to have something to eat. Bet you haven't eaten since you two started tonight, right?"

"You sound like me."

"Yeah, well…someone has to."

John fell silent as the DI guided him to the gym's shop. Closed, of course, but there were places to sit and a considerable number of vending machines. It wasn't until he saw them that he realised how truly _tired _he was. He sank into an uncomfortable metal chair as if it was a silk chaise and accepted the aero bar and crisps without resistance. Greg then left for a few minutes and returned with a dishevelled-looking Consulting Detective. Sherlock _did _resist the food and the sitting down, but for once there didn't seem much fight left in him. He looked numb.

"I've just gotta round up everyone else," Greg's face was taut, but determined. "Get forensics down here and release statements for the ambulance crews."

"What about our statements?"

"If you want to get them hammered out now, that's fine, but I'll understand if you wait 'til tomorrow."

"Later today." Sherlock mumbled. Lestrade bit back a groan, but nodded all the same. John was just relieved (more relieved to hear that baritone than he'd ever admit).

"Okay…okay. I'll see you both later, then."

It was as much an _'I'm letting you sneak away from this mess while you can' _as anything else. Sherlock had already tuned him out and settled to staring avidly at the stainless steel table top. He was pale as a ghost. To the untrained eye (probably the eyes of most Yarders) he looked a little shaken. Mostly normal.

Just Sherlock.

John knew better.

"Look –"

"Thinking."

His eyes didn't leave the table.

John tried not to flinch, but he was fairly certain he did a poor job. There was nothing he could do, however. Too tired to pretend he wasn't, he stared at the man for long minutes, taking in the dark mop of curls; the eyes that were currently the colour of sleet in the morning. His still too-thin frame, clad in the ever-present black belstaff.

His _friend_.

* * *

_(October 8__th__)_

– _Mycroft had given them the key after the police turned up nothing. Haltingly, he let them see the Classified Files. _

_John remembered that as the point where things stopped making sense. _

_Normally, even in the strangest of cases, a word from Sherlock and everything would become clear again. Rational. What Mycroft showed them was…impossible. Actually, no, it wasn't jst impossible: It was _absurd_. None of them believed it. Mycroft hadn't expected them to. Nonetheless, he gave them free reign._

_Mostly, anyway. Mycroft always had his secrets and there was something about this…_

_They'd gone back to the yard after visiting the British Government…to utter chaos. _

_No. chaos made it sound as if a few files had been thrown about. A bit _inconvenient_. What'd actually happened was someone had planted a neurotoxin in the coffee. _

_Or the milk. __Or the sugar. __Or something like that. _

_Anyway, NSY was full of paramedics and the dying when they returned. How the _hell _it had happened was beyond anyone's imagination; it was only through blind luck and quick thinking from a few John hadn't previously thought capable that the buildings hadn't been turned into mass graves._

_How close they'd come to that…_

_John hadn't felt so hyperaware since Afghanistan. Then the worst came as they'd gone to check the cells. With Sherlock and Greg behind him, John had run, gun in hand. The man who'd stumbled through the door of 221B was visible from the end of the corridor. _

_Or…half of him was, anyway. _

_Someone had taken his hands and tied them together so that they could pull his arms up and hang the man upright from the ceiling. Lower half…no longer attached._

_He heard Lestrade retching._

_The events after that blurred together: the only good thing from attacking the Yard was that it gave Sherlock what he needed._

'_Serial killer's always hard. Have to wait for them to make a mistake.'_

_They'd left evidence. The poison they'd used had traces of other substances: lead, mercury, sulphur – it'd been mass produced in solution and less than an hour in the lab told Sherlock it contained substantial amounts of a chemical only produced in any significant quantities by runoff from Battersea. _

_They'd used water from that part of the Thames. _

_The base _had_ to be close-by. _

_They'd pulled Mycroft's resources (already primed and ready). It was quick. Most of the men they found seemed under orders to commit suicide in the event of discovery, but four were able to apprehended for questioning. They were conscripted London criminals knowing nothing as it turned out; scared out of their wits by something they couldn't name._

_A shadow._

_Mycroft's people took custody. Sherlock made the connection to Yemen by the sand found under their fingernails and on the crates hidden in the sub-basement. All the while, John had run through the impossible things in the files as if on a loop. _

_They were actually (horrifyingly) starting to make _sense.

_They wouldn't have got any further if it hadn't been for the erstwhile Anna Harper. She'd collected almost everything needed to collapse the operation before she and her teammate were captured. Fortunately for Mycroft's team, her work had been recovered (the man himself was reluctant to explain _how_ they'd acquired the journals). In them was included a complicated series of experiments (acknowledging Nick Eric's help) proving anything that touched the terrorist's…_technology…_would be infected with a very unique type of radiation. _

_Harmless. If a bit…lingering._

_A signature._

_With the signature confirmed as persisting on the crates, they proceeded in hunting it down. John felt as if he'd stumbled into a science fiction novel. They found traces in an abandoned warehouse down the docks, but it was a false positive. Sherlock identified movements from around two to three months before, but nothing more recent than that. The place had long since been picked clean. He'd seemed most despondent at that point, despite there being no further murders after the attack on the Yard. It'd been almost a week and the strain showed. _

_John didn't know how to help him._

_Twelve hours later the signature was picked up coming from a youth hostel gymnasium in Croydon. Most of the force turned out to siege the buildings, armed, joined and backed-up by MI5. John wondered how many of the Yarders knew the gravity of what they were doing. It was hard to miss when field agents went first to detect and disarm traps. _

_Bullets. _

_Death. _

_The area dissolved quickly into a battleground, the terrorists forcing them to pay for every inch. And, of course Sherlock had insisted on sneaking around the back (John with him, obviously)._

'_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.' Wasn't that what Sherlock said at Baskerville? _

_Improbable._

_There, right in front of them, had been a hole._

_A literal, very _real _hole, floating in mid-air._

_A portal through time and space. _

_...through which Sherlock had stepped without hesitation. By this point John had felt a bit woozy, so he'd followed Sherlock a bit light headed. The portal opened into a sandstone cave network with wires running like arteries all over the walls and ceiling. Somehow, they'd gotten away with downloading the entire contents of a computer they found (luckily very old and still compatible) onto a small external Sherlock happened to be carrying cushioned in his coat. Then they legged it back out. Fuck science fiction, really. _

_They were back on their side when things actually went tits up._

_Impossible._

_Just a nightmare._

_Just –_

"_What d'ya say, Sherlock Homes – up for another round?"_

"You_…" _

_John barely heard the word whispered in Sherlock's breath. _

_The man was alone. No guards, no snipers (though John wouldn't have bet their lives on that) and yet he was scarier than the pitched battle still audible above them. _

_The Spider. _

_So this was what the terrorists wanted; why Mycroft was so desperate to stop them. Those _stupid _bastards had gone and –_

"_Come to gloat?" Sherlock snapped icily, lips curled in a snarl. Moriarty giggled._

"_Oh, no, no, no, Sherlock! I'm just in a…_very _good mood."_

_John had felt his throat fail him. Moriarty had stepped towards him, smile predatory._

"_Hello Jonny Boy. Miss me?"_

_Sherlock gave an odd sort of…spasm. John snapped to look at him: his eyes had gone wide, face bloodless, knuckles white where they held the gun. And Moriarty was laughing as he backed off._

"_You know they'll come running if you fire that in here. I wonder what _they'll_ do to John. Can't be worse than what they did to that runaway…"_

"_What do you want?"_

"_Oh honey, have you forgotten? We have our little game to finish."_

"_The game ended on the roof of St Bart's."_

_The detective's voice came in a hiss. Moriarty's smile vanished._

"_No, Sherlock, you CHEATED!" The last word he screamed. "You. Cheated. Only fair for a rematch, Sherlock."_

"'_Rematch?'"_

"_Oh, but it was such a _good _cheat," the madman was suddenly smiling again. "You deserve a reward for that."_

"_What kind of reward?"_

"_Come here, Sherly," his voice dropped seductively. "Let me tell you…"_

_John watched in mute horror as Sherlock approached stiffly and let the purring Moriarty whisper something in his ear. Sherlock didn't react. Moriarty stepped back, an evil mischief dancing about him. If he'd thought it impossible for Sherlock to lose any more colour, he'd been wrong. His face was taut. Sherlock's gun trained between Moriarty's eyes as he backed away._

"_So that's it?" John burst out. "This all over again?" Then, on impulse: "_Loosing _all over again?"_

"_Oh so sure, Jonny Boy? Ooh, this should be good – did you like my little entrance? A little welcome back party I organised." He chuckled like it was some sort of in-joke. "_But…"_ he suddenly checked his watch with an exaggerated wince. "_…_things to do. Can't hang around here all day! Chou…"_

_And then he was gone again. After a few minutes, John began to doubt whether he'd been real._

"_Come on." _

_Sherlock's voice was urgent. The blood didn't return to his face as together they managed to get back. Mycroft's personal men were nothing if not efficient and only a short while later MI5 routed the terrorists. They were there to make sure the area was secured. End of. __All John really acknowledged of the immediate aftermath was Lestrade's indignation about the portal room being absolutely _Off Limits_ to his team. People ran round doing things: paramedics, policemen, agents…with him and Sherlock standing numbly in the middle. After a while, they cornered Lestrade and Mycroft (who turned up in person for the occasion) and broke the news._

_Lestrade swore violently. _

_Mycroft looked gravely unsurprised. _

_And Sherlock had said something sarcastic, callous and generally ill-timed. John, unable to take any more, shouted bitterly and stormed out of the room, out of the building, and into the freezing rain._

* * *

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock's breath seemed to hitch. John was mesmerised by the way the detective looked slowly up from the table, his eyes silver with the barest hint of blue. Like the colour that forms at the edge of blue ice. Oh so many times John had looked at them and it'd been like trying to stare through a brick wall. Or to see something there when in fact the detective was miles away. Always they were a puzzle all of their own. _Enigmatic_.

Closed.

Now they were deeper than the bottom of the sea, _lost;_ holding to John's as if he were a lifeline. At long last something seemed to break, and the astonishing eyes shut exhaustedly.

"We'll have to burn our clothes."

John frowned.

"The radiation will have infected us quite thoroughly, I fear."

"Bugger." The doctor let out the faintest chuckle. "You know, Sometimes I think you do this on purpose just to ruin my jumpers."

"You make me sound so vindictive. I always leave your favourite ones! Unless of course they're truly terrible, proving once and for all your truly appalling taste in attire, in which case my destroying them would be something of a relief to the world."

"Just because you wonder around London in silk shirts! Anyway, if you had your way I'd walk out the flat in a bed sheet. And you think _I _have bad fashion sense!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John could see the smile lingering on his lips. The tension, so harsh between them since the Fall (a term the tabloids used and which had ended up sticking like a limpet) seemed to melt suddenly away like dust blown in a wind. Odd how it took near complete cataclysm to break down that inexplicable wall, but John felt, for all that'd happened, suddenly…alright again.

The blood on the floor ran fresh.

He let loose an honest, unexpected smile in the storm's eye.

It was when they were outside Baker Street that Sherlock stopped suddenly, giving John a look the doctor couldn't quite see in the half light. He was too tired to even try to process it; just grateful they were no longer ignoring these in-between moments. He put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed gently before opening the door.

_Home._

* * *

**_A.N: just edited this. Really needed it once again. So: Johnlock, little bit of time travel (though only a bit, still working out the kinks in organising the cannon), swearing, sex, violence and my first attempt at a whodunit. Think I've got this chapter down at last. Reviews, my lovelies? (and thank you to those that have already reviewed :)_**


	2. Personal Note

**02. Personal Note**

_**221B Baker Street, 5:21 am, October 12**__**th**__** 2013**_

Cold.

Incessant.

Even with the fire.

Even with tea.

_John's tea._

Only warm when John's in the room (went to bed some time ago). It's cold again.

Sherlock wants to play the violin, but his mind whirls too fast; like a storm, like a blizzard. John's at the eye. Everything is chaos: impossible, indecipherable, observations tossed and shredded into obfuscation. He can't see. Not clearly. He tries to make sense of the noise. He lies prone on the settee, fingers steepled beneath his jaw.

Without the noise is the Silence.

The Silence is worse._ So much worse._

The Silence is what holds the absence of John Watson.

_How hadn't he seen it?_

Maybe he had.

_When had it happened?_

When had John become…

…essential? Irreplaceable? Necessary? As necessary as breathing and daylight and Mrs Hudson in Baker Street?

_Pain. _

He doesn't understand.

He _feels –_ as if his heart were being torn from his breast. A cacophony of emotion rises, as containable as it is sensical. He's suddenly grateful for John's absence. Because then John would've seen.

John would've known.

What would he do? Would he feel _embarrassed? Piteous? Disgusted?_

_He would leave. He'd _have _to leave. 'We're not a couple…I'm not gay.' _He'd leave.

And Sherlock's world would be without air or sunlight.

He presses his eyelids to his pupils.

_He will not sleep._

He's a high-functioning sociopath. High-functioning sociopaths cannot experience, nor reciprocate _love_. He rejects sentiment as if it were parasite, dissecting it's machinations to add salt to his defiance. He has no need of the human interchange. He exists outside to better observe the rest of the dullards populating the inside. He does. Not. _Feel._

Once, that might even have been true.

_He doesn't like to think that far back._

_A time without colour._

_Before John._

'_As a conductor of light, you are unbeatable!'_

He'd almost said 'my conductor of light'.

He watches the shadows flicker over the wall. He thinks of John. He knows one day John will leave. He will marry and have children; such is the way of the world. When he does, Sherlock knows (irrationally) that he will cease to exist. He will die.

But even that would be preferable to Moriarty.

– "_What d'you think, Sherlock? I'll burn him alive. D'you think that'll bring you closer to me?" –_

_John dying._

John with a sniper's dot on his forid.

_John dead._

_Dead._

DEAD.

Panic (fingers clutching his hair). Pain. The _need _to go to John. Find him. Never let him go. Because John _couldn't be gone. Couldn't._ _Wouldn't. _

Sherlock would die himself before he let John die.

_He'd proved that already, had he not?_

Hollow. _So completely..._perhaps he'll sleep outside his door again.

_As one would do to warm themselves before a fire._

He's done it more times than he'll ever admit. _John can't know _(obviously). He feels himself moving without thought.

He arrives at the door.

_One thin barrier of wood._

He splays his hand on its surface.

_He brings his body flush, from his toes to his forid._

As if he can fall through.

Sociopaths _don't need_ human contact.

_Sherlock imagines John's hands in his hair. John's body against his. _John could never know Sherlock Holmes has a heart.

That if one crept into John's room and pressed an ear to his dear doctor's chest…

…one would even hear it beating.

* * *

**_A.N: Edit (version 1.1, in other words or whatever). Cut it down considerably, and considering this is only meant to be a flash of Sherlock's conscious state I reckon shorter is better. Less whimsical, anyway. As evident by now, time and present-tense structure is important in this and, in adition to this being my first whodunit, I actually want to explore an artsy avenue for once. Bit of verse for you, fanfiction readers :)_**

**_Any reviews at all? (looks hopeful) like it/love it/meh/confused/hate it and wished it would crawl away?_**


	3. Personal Journal

**03. Personal Journal**

_**The Diogenes Club, 10:30am, October 10**__**th**__** 2013**_

Mycroft Holmes disliked chaos.

Almost as much as he disliked the constant need to be _understanding _when it came to politicians being…well, politicians.

He appreciated a certain level of organic chance to life.

But on the whole he strived to attain order. The world worked like a well-oiled machine: inputs controllable; outputs predictable.

He eyed the leather-backed notebook on the table before him. Inset on the cover were the initials _AH_ in faded gold, the rest of surface unadorned (devoid of further indication as to who owned it).

To the unobservant, it might have been called blank.

But Mycroft could almost hear the desert wind that had left such scouring marks. The sun that had faded it. It wasn't old, particularly, but it had been dragged through mud (remnants still faintly stained the edges) carried in a pocket for an extended period (the dents and scratches would remain for some time yet) and thrown aggressively at something (the damage to the top portion of the spine was distinctive).

This particular notebook represented the Chaos.

A thing outside the world's machine.

Oh, he could certainly see the potential in such technology – any five-year-old could have pointed out what one could do, after all – unfortunately what was happening currently was precisely why Mycroft _didn't _see the value in it. It was too dangerous. Too unpredictable. It introduced the Unknown Variable, and that was unacceptable.

* * *

– Message 1: ID, yD100102H Uu8rd121. SECURITY CODE 0002. [DATE STAMP: 13.07.34]. (Received by Home Office: 15.09.13). PACKAGE: 807g compressed bubble packing, 1 section 30cm2 cardboard (weight approx. 84g). CONTAINED WITHIN STRONG BOX: CARBON STEEL ALLOY (TBA). VALIDITY OF CONTENTS UNVERIFIED. MESSAGE IN PERMENANT MARKER ON CARDBOARD SECTION:

_Good morning_

* * *

Mycroft sighed. The initiation of this…_incident_ had been both sporadical and intriguing. In fact, he had not paid the first package any mind at all. There had been considerably more pressing matters to attend to, not least of which was Sherlock's re-integration into society. So much to do – press suppression, confidentiality agreements, monitoring of his (many) enemies. All that paperwork…

* * *

– Message 2: ID, Qt100102nO V29LL164. SECURITY CODE 0002. [DATE STAMP: 29.08.34]. (Received by the Home Office: 01.10.13). PACKAGE: 809g compressed bubble packing, 1 section 30cm2 cardboard (weight approx. 85g). CONTAINED WITHING STRONG BOX: STEEL ALLOY DETERMINED 'C8'. CONTENTS' CARBON DATE CONFIRMED (TO BE RETESTED). MESSAGE IN PERMENANT MARKER ON CARBON SECTION:

_If not morning, greetings anyway_

* * *

_Of course_, after the appearance of the Yemeni terrorist, he began to think on the puzzling packages more seriously. The coincidence was simply too alarming. And Sherlock was certainly fascinated by the implications. He and Doctor Watson began investigating from another direction, as they were wont to do, and through many a double and triple check, the evidence mounted in favour of the…impossible.

* * *

– Message 3: ID, BKl100102X az3N1200. SECURITY CODE 0012. [DATE STAMP: 03.09.34]. (Received by the Home Office: 05.10.13). PACKAGE: 809.5g compressed bubble packing, 1 section 30cm2 cardboard (weight approx. 84g). CONTAINED WITHIN STRONG BOX (C8 ALLOY). CONTENTS CONFIRMED. MESSAGE IN PERMANENT MARKER ON CARDBOARD SECTION:

_Perhaps it is afternoon?_

* * *

– Message 4: ID, BkL100106Y rtR7G201. SECURITY CODE 0012. [DATE STAMP: 04.09.34]. (Received by the Home Office: 06.10.13). PACKAGE: 810g compressed bubble packing, 1 section 30cm2 cardboard (weight approx. 84g). CONTAINED WITHIN STRONG BOX (C8 ALLOY). CONTENTS CONFIRMED. MESSAGE IN PERMANENT MARKER ON CARDBOARD SECTION:

_Link stable. Stand by_

* * *

Several more messages were received the next day – a fact he kept carefully from his sibling (no need to complicate matters more than they were). Perhaps the most 'amusing' delivery (or so his secretary thought) was the package labelled: HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE. Within were two live white mice, a small_ Arabidopsis_ plant under a white light, and a radio platform. On the radio platform were two buttons and a neatly folded note in the same handwriting as the other packages:

_If mice still alive, press the green button. If dead, press the red button._

Naturally, this was examined for explosives. Or other such nefarious workings (I fact, just about everything they could think of) and, in finding none, Amelia, or so was the name of the week, requested Pressing the Green Button.

It was pressed.

They waited.

Then in the early hours of the next morning came, not a message in a bottle or test subjects in a box, but a phone call. From – of all places – a phone box at the Regent's Park station. It was a young man bearing a dozen journals, a personal security clearance, and (or so the man who picked him up claimed) a scowl that could 'cut rock'.

Mycroft elected to examine the journals first.

The terrorists were (evidently) merely opportunists, failing initially to even get the stolen technology working. Anna Harper had been the reconnaissance agent in charge of ensuring that the group did not succeed and had apparently left the notebooks in a repository near Lawdar (recovered six months into her captivity). At this point, she had been declared dead by his department in the future; a development made after recovering the body of her colleague, technician Nick Eric. A pity because the woman was quite clearly a very capable observer and strategist, as well as a remarkable chemist.

The technology was explained clearly in the journals as well. The time portal was itself created by merging two 'sets' of matter at the quantum level, causing each to cancel the other out. The original intention was for weaponry research, but when the scientists realised the process was stable, they investigated further, discovering that this could be done with only a portion of the 'set' (preserving both sets whilst eliminating the separation between them).

And that this 'set' could include all matter in a given universe.

Mycroft had snorted at seeing that, but it was as close to the truth as anything else. So, in fewer words, two universes could be jammed together and a hole knocked through. Simple. The trick was patently the _identity_ of the 'universes' being linked and correctly making that link stable.

What one needed (or so he came under the impression) was the correct 'set code', containing both the universes' quantum signatures and the specific correlatory sequence. Then one could use the technology to link any place on earth with any other place in time and space.

* * *

_**SIS Building, 7:15am, October 8**__**th**__** 2013**_

"_And this had been confirmed?"_

"_Obviously."_

"_Why has this not resulted in alien contact? Universal colonisation? The twenty-first century the public was expecting?"_

"_It is…complicated."_

"_Clearly."_

"_There's no need to sound so contemptuous! You've confirmed my own identity, have you not?"_

"_Yes…"_

"_Then I'll be spared the necessity of another odious interrogation as to whether it is or isn't possible to travel through time!" The young man ran a hand agitatedly through his dark hair, shutting his eyes briefly before fixing Mycroft with a glare. "And I _stress _that I say 'possible', not 'easy'. The process for refining the quantum variables and completing the procedure for aligning them is currently so unreliable it took two hundred attempts just to achieve this –" he gestured emphatically between them. "– when the great majority of the code was already completed!"_

_His anger drained suddenly away, leaving a sort of desolation in its place. The change was almost startling._

"_We're shutting down the programme." He said quietly, face aged far beyond his years. "It's too dangerous. And impossible without…with– even if –"_

_The young man shuddered, trying to hold the emotion threatening to overwhelm him._

"_We can't allow what's happened to happen again. Not while we're still stumbling round trying to rout these _bastards_."_

"_Yes," Mycroft couldn't quite hide his distaste. "I read the…report. Unfortunate."_

_There was a pause wherein the young man fixed him with a look like lightning in a storm._

"_She's alive."_

"_I beg your pardon?"_

"_She's alive, Mycroft."_

"_Oh?"…interesting. "This is…relevant?"_

"_Of course it's fucking relevant!" His nostrils flared._

"_She is important to you? Ah…she left you a message – from this time period particularly? I presume also that she is the one that provided you with this part of the code?"_

"_Once a specific place and time are…_acquired…_the link is relatively stable. We believe that the Yemenis opened a portal between here and there in order to do whatever the hell it is they think they can."_

_He swallowed._

"_We're still unsure. We think she escaped_ _through _that_ portal before sending a message back through to…let us know. All we can confirm is that it was opened within four or five months of now."_

"_And you wish us to…find her? Collect her? But what shall we do once we have? I presume you will close the portal back to your own time once you have returned…"_

"_Yes." _

_The young man shut his eyes again._

"_Well…"_

"_I don't know. I don't – just…find her. If you can. Employ her if you must, but…please."_

"_And prevent the incursion of time-travelling terrorists with unknown intentions while I'm at it?"_

_He shrugged hollowly._

"_Something like that."_

"_Hmm…"_

_Mycroft heaved a sigh. Always it was _he_ who was expected to mop up the mess…_

_The young man hesitated…then drew a last notebook from within the silk waistcoat he'd chosen to appear in, putting it on the desk squarely between them. He pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, seemingly finding it difficult to leave the item to Mycroft's care, then stood decisively, moving towards the door._

"_Good luck. And…it _is_ relevant you find her. Just so you know."_

"_Oh?"_

"_She's my sister, Mycroft. Keep her safe."_

_And with that he left._

* * *

So…Mycroft Holmes (the world's getting-things-done chief apparent) was expected to rescue _AH_ and stop the terrorist band with the stolen access to time-travelling technology who had, by all accounts, revealed their intentions in using said technology with bells and trumpets.

_Moriarty…_

He, of all people, would admit to having no emotions whatsoever.

They were indulgences he could not afford.

But the thought of Moriarty brought back made his blood run cold. It was not merely the chaos that had been caused; it was the resources that must have been called upon, the statement it was intended to make, the scale of operations. Nothing to be misconstrued.

He would want revenge.

He would want also to re-build his network, but vengeance on Sherlock would come first. That was certain. What else would a criminal mastermind, newly rescued from the inevitability of his own death by Sherlock's doing (how exactly this didn't affect the present wasn't explained clearly, but oh well) want from life?

It wasn't as if the question had ever been posed before.

_AH._

Oh, yes. He ought to have seen it immediately.

Unfortunate.

Very unfortunate.

Yes.

He would find her.

_If _she was still alive. And if she was, he would ensure she stayed that way. It was better, however, if he kept that particular piece of information to himself. For the moment, at least. That and his meeting with the young man were things his brother and Doctor Watson had _not _needed to know when the subject was finally raised.

_AH._

Mycroft continued to stare at the notebook. Unlike the others, this was written with care. Purposefully. On the flyleaf were the words: _The Personal Memoirs of Anna Harper _in elegant calligraphy. The diary itself was of quality enough that it was probably given as a gift one to two years prior.

Mycroft had read through it.

Looked at the occasional drawings.

_Just when it seemed that the world was coming back to order…_

* * *

**_A.N: Bloody hell this was tricky. I definitely thought this needed a) cleaning up and b) clarifying. Also I wanted to include a bit more of the stuff in my head. The reason it was tricky was because sorting out the dates is like planning on a calender - between October the 5th (the start as mentioned in the first chapter) and 12th there's a lot of stuff that has to happen in proper sequence. Additionally, paradoxes are a bitch. But, I think I have the cannon straightened out. Included the dates (did anyone read the date labels on the packages? haha) and hopefully this should gel together a bit better than the last time._**

**_At the very least, I've managed to close a massive plot hole I had forming before it consumed the entire idea. So, like Senga, I have AH running round in my head being a baddass and demanding I write her story (must type up Senga's next one, come to think of it). So, um, reviews perhaps?_**


	4. New Clientele

**04. New Clientele**

_**Heathrow Airport, 2:11pm, September 3**__**rd**__** 2013**_

She sighs.

She checks her phone.

She checks her lipstick.

She raises her eyes.

She doesn't want to appear tired – though she is. Her hips sway. Her lips curl in a half-smile that feels just a _little_ predatory, if not altogether threatening. Like a leopard ready to take a nap after a large meal.

She checks her phone again.

Not that he ever texts her back.

But she could always live in hope. It would certainly make the intervening time less dull. Working for the Elder Brother was tedious at best, contemptuous at worst. But it seems a necessity to her nowadays. The perks are always worth it. Even if she did have to report to the insufferable bureaucrat.

She checks her phone one more time.

She can always use her trump card…text him about Watson…but then again that would likely result in him simply avoiding her presence in the real world. She doesn't think much of the trade-off. Truth be told, she feels a certain amount of sympathy for Watson. The man was obviously finding it…_difficult _would be an understatement. The doctor is watched constantly; by Mycroft, by her, by Sherlock himself when he's in London. Not that he is very often. He's almost feverishly occupied with other things. With other men.

With the Spider's Web.

Still, he returns far more often than other men might have for a man whom he could neither approach nor contact. It must be unhealthy; to watch someone so closely like that. She tries to distract him when she can. It rarely works (especially not the way she'd like) but it does occupy his attention, if only briefly. And there was that old axiom about the man who got everything he wanted: in this case, she's rather fond of the game.

And watching him fervently _deny_ being _madly in love_ with the good doctor was just too delicious to interrupt.

To watch a man so clever be so enslaved was…_intoxicating._

It almost makes up for the fact it isn't her.

She slides into the black car waiting for her. She thinks of Watson again. She thinks of how the man asserted of their (most _certainly_) not being a couple. The best bit that he believed his own words. He still believes it, moving through life day to day. He still believes he wasn't bound to Sherlock from the moment he encountered the enigmatic genius.

She's seen it.

She's seen the care in the doctor's eyes.

_So very different from her own._

The smile fades. She thinks of this.

Of Watson's capacity to care. Unconditionally, undemandingly; in ways that neither she nor the Holmes brothers _really_ understood. He cared for Sherlock. And under his care, Sherlock became something no one expected him to.

…_almost _human.

She's seen it.

She's confirmed it.

She decides that to feel such a thing must be _quite_ remarkable.

She does not desire it (of course she doesn't!) it would weaken her absurdly and she'd bore of it within a week. No, she _doesn't_ wish for her own 'John Watson'.

The car stops.

She slides out.

She opens a door.

She prowls inside.

He's here. _She already knows where he'll be_…

She slips into the room and leans into his shoulder, brushing her lips to his ear.

"And just how is our Doctor Watson?"

Sherlock doesn't respond. His jaw sets a hard line. There's a new scar on his neck. On closer inspection, he's too thin. His eyes are bruised (from lack of sleep – the black right eye has since faded). He's cold (he's been sitting there for hours and hours without end). He's staring at the computer screen.

John Watson.

He's at the graveyard. He looks the same as he always did.

_Except he didn't_.

Almost as if she is seeing two different people: one that looks much _like_ John Watson, walking in his shoes; through his life day to day. And the real one. The John Watson Sherlock _left_.

Sherlock had been watching; motionless. Emotionless. The doctor watches the gravestone.

Their eyes are the same.

It is one of the rare moments in her life when she really doesn't know what to do. She feels (always a bad sign) that she should do _something_. But the sight is so…_intense_. And yet void. Emptied out. Not living.

Like the scene of a suicide. It's actually quite disturbing.

She leaves.

She turns back the way she came.

_Leaves them in private. _

She clicks into the sitting room. She sits, sighing a little as she reclines. She stretches a little more, emulating a cat.

She meets Mycroft's eyes.

"You should check on him. I think he's stopped eating."

"He stopped doing that some time ago." The Elder Holmes delicately replaces his cup on its saucer then deposits both on the table. "I asked the doctor once what one might deduce about my brother's heart." He sighs. "I take it things went well?"

"As expected." Her lips purse. "The ambassador was very…cooperative."

"Indeed." Mycroft's lips curl a little in distaste.

"And him?"

Hazel eyebrows rise and he looks her squarely in the eye.

"It's done."

She's shocked.

She shouldn't be, but she is.

"Then," she asks after short a pause. "Why is he still here?"

Mycroft fixes her with a look of condescension, retrieving his tea, and it is this that brings her to stand and move rapidly back towards the door.

"You have a new client."

She stops. His voice is lofty; she wonders whether he's doing it on purpose.

"Girl or boy?"

"Girl."

"Ooh, _Mycroft_. Is it my birthday?"

"Perhaps."

He hands her a file. Inside is a very dark and pixelated photograph. There is no name.

"An invisible girl." She says, running crimson-nailed fingertips softly over the picture, and then over the page. "Mycroft, you shouldn't have!"

"Her presence has been noted four times in the last four months. Each time has coincided with a major crime, though we doubt these are exclusive to her profile. The first crime was identity theft, the second the theft of an antique pearl necklace from the Duchess of Kent. The third and fourth were murders."

"And you truly have no idea who this girl is?"

"She has proved extremely _elusive_. I was _hoping _you would lend your expertise to her apprehension?"

"Who were the bodies?" Her eyes narrow. "There's something special about them."

"A high ranking member of a military research team. He had his throat slit, but more importantly his computer access was used to release a virus into the network." He frowns. "More than five years work was lost instantly and the rest is still being recovered."

"A saboteur?"

"Understandably, our interest was…elevated at that point. Yet we were unable to ascertain either her identity or her motive. Moreover, she disappeared once more until the night three weeks ago when she shot Andrew Wessex."

"Bullet through the temple from more than half a mile away." She thumbs the edge of the file. "How do you know it was her?"

"How do you think we obtained the image?" He has a look of dark smugness that she's come to associate with the closing of a net. Looking more closely at said picture, she sees the rifle braced to the girl's shoulder, lowered to point downwards. Already fired. She can't see the girl's face.

"Very well. If you want. I think I'll be able to _entice _her out. Sherlock not interested?"

Mycroft's eyes close with a pained look.

"He referred to it as dull, and by this point I'm inclined to agree. Take care of it, would you?"

"Your brother?" She smiles coyly, enjoying the way his nostrils flare, fingers tightening on the fine china.

"_Miss Adler._" He's all but hissing.

"Very well."

She breathes theatrically.

"If I must,"

She leans into his armchair as she turns.

"I'll be sure to keep it down. You _know_ how he gets."

The china rattles agitatedly as she clicks out of the room. Her smile fades, however, when she realises that neither Sherlock nor Watson have moved so much as an inch. Absolutely quiet now, she steps over to Sherlock's chair and slowly swivels it round.

He snarls when he's forced to take his eyes off his doctor.

She leans _slowly_ in.

"Oh, how I _wish_ you would look like that for me,"

She traces the new scar.

"Maybe we'd take long walks together. We'd have dinner," she does an impression of wistfulness, pressing closer. "I doubt we'd even make it to the bedroom…" her lips are a hairsbreadth from his as her hand traces his inner thigh. That's when he stops her. Because that's when his eyes finally focus on her as if realising only now that she's even in the room.

This makes up her mind.

"Just once, my little virgin. Just once…"

Either he's too tired or too distant to stop her, but he doesn't and she presses her lips (only lightly) to his.

She tastes.

She wants _more_.

She wants all of him. But he doesn't belong to her – he's cold to her. He's frowning. He's confused. She doesn't look (she doesn't want to see pity or disgust). Quite sentimental of her, but true all the same.

Her eyes are shut when she draws away.

"Go home." She breathes. She reaches behind him and turns off the monitor. "And when he finally makes a man of you…be a dear and send me the audio."

"_Why does it matter to you?_" His voice is barely audible, hoarse and caustic.

She smirks, sliding seamlessly into his lap, hand still on his neck.

"Because…ooh, you're imagining all the _things_ John could do to a naughty boy like you…"

"Get out."

"Watching him as you do. Such a voyeur! You're afraid."

"_Out._"

"_Go home_."

He snaps his mouth shut.

"Oh, poor man. Innocent man. Not even listening to your own heart…"

"You still believe I have one?"

"Mmm…unless the muscle currently _racing _beneath my fingertipsis in a _very_ good disguise…"

He frowns again, his eyes wide.

She laughs.

She moves away so quickly, anyone else would've blinked.

She clicks to the door.

She looks over her shoulder.

"Looks like it'll rain tonight. But if you'll excuse me, I have to visit someone else who's been _misbehaving. _Until our next, Sherlock Holmes."

As she reaches the front door, she hears a very faint crash.

* * *

_**A.N: Editing (editing) editing - I actually really enjoy writing like this. Makes for a shorter sequence, but I do like the feel. Especially for someone like Irene Adler, and I like being able to explore the concept of writing differently from different people's perspectives. And by that I mean in an entirely different format. heh ;)**_

_**Anyways, reviews...anyone? Anyone at all? (still love the originals: you guys are absolute stars :D)**_


	5. Darkness Reigns

**05. Darkness Reigns**

_**Unknown**_

Concrete.

Cardboard.

Flesh.

_Silence_.

She descends in the dark. No light. Nothing at all.

_Pain._

It is raining.

* * *

_Screaming; the west wing crumbles. The piano has been smashed. It is creeping under cracked doors, slithering through closed curtains, like tar and the void. The candle is stuttering._

* * *

Captive.

But not cold.

Hidden.

_Hiding._

* * *

_Curled up under a solitary blanket, pressed to the flagstones. The candle flickers low in its stand. She lies in the circle of light. _

_Everything is broken. _

_The glass is strewn down the grand staircase. The walls have tumbled. The wind howls somewhere in the distance. Quiet now. Still now. She lies in the silence and allows the dark to cloak her._

* * *

Raindrops.

Fibres soak against naked skin.

Cardboard bows.

* * *

_She drifts. One might have been forgiven the misconception that the darkness was empty. Can't see, but the shape of things that _were _lingers. Skeletons of buildings and echoes of sound rising like ghosts out of the marsh. Where her fingers lie flush with the stone, they play absently with the powdered remnants of this bastion. So much ash in the wind. She draws nonsensical patterns. _

_Their meaning is lost to the silence._

* * *

Voices.

No understanding of what they say.

Some are even.

Some are laughing.

Some commanding.

Many dozens; hundreds.

_Hidden._

* * *

_The pain is distant. She wonders where it has gone. The candle has long since gone. With languorous slowness, she tugs the threadbare sheet. The rough material rasps. She feels almost…real. _

_A stray tune, curling like smoke. She turns her head to catch it as it passes. It is soft and quick; iridescent, yet elusive. A hummingbird. It slips by and silence returns._

* * *

Colder.

She hasn't the energy to resist.

_Cradled in rivers of ice. _

Voices grow louder; closer.

Hands touch.

Fibres scrape and grind.

* * *

_Shivering. Uncontrollable. The darkness is absolute. Fog. Silence. Underwater. No air. No music. She's frightened. So terribly frightened. Alone in the Desolation. _

_The fens rattle. Frost climbs the reeds. _

_She thinks she should be crying, but she can't move. The inevitability takes away the fear, after a while. She sinks within her body (the broken casement) descending layer upon layer of muscle, bone and adipose to a space deep, deep within. _

_A chamber locked and bolted. _

_Something pulses weakly within. A secret and a mystery she has never cared to share. But she doesn't turn the light on; she listens to it slow with a curious melancholy._

* * *

No more rain.

Or maybe it's moved.

Voices.

_Speaking_ and _murmuring_.

Irrelevant.

* * *

_Fragments of things become manifest for a moment. Like pieces of a film on a silver screen. Like the harmonies of a chorus of mourning birds. She lies splayed on the floor, discarding the blanket entirely. _

_Exposed in every sense of the word. _

_But what was there to hide from here? Now, at the very end…_

* * *

Time to sleep.

* * *

_**A.N: Okay, so this has turned into an actual piece of prose. Introduces the character rather nicely, although what I'm trying to do is basically give her personal reflections a flash of screentime to give an idea as to her mindset. Also hinting as to what's happened. Version 1.1 (obviously). Actually, I think the first chapter was 1.2...didn't keep track, never mind.**_

_**Thankyou to the original reviewers for this chapter and the previous (lights of my life XD)**_


	6. Chapter One: Obsession and Chaos

_**PART ONE: The Disappearance of the Lady of Camden**_

**Obsession and Chaos**

_**221B Baker Street, 11:39am, October 20**__**th**__** 2013**_

"Are you actually going to move at all today?"

"Are there things requiring my immediate attention?"

"_Your_…nope. Nothing in particular. Nothing that jumps _instantly _to mind!"

"Then I would say the chances are _slim_."

John bit back a growl of frustration and tried to ignore the fact that his friend hadn't so much as shifted to down a cup of tea in the last two days. Things had been torturous in the immediate aftermath of the incident at the YHA – including Mycroft being a cagy bastard and promptly cancelling _all_ their access to the files – but after that it was as if everyone just packed up and went home. Case closed. Time for tea and buns.

The thought brought nausea back to his stomach.

He was reminded forcibly of his first Tour; the bits in between the gunfire and artillery. They had to be ready, of course, for any slight change that would bring hell down on them, but sometimes he'd found himself _wishing _for that. Just to break the monotony. Because it _was_ bloody boring – he'd actually forgotten how boring it was: the waiting. Forcing yourself to do typical things like eat, and sleep. Out there on the battlefield, the fear kept him strung up tight and the lulls became deafening. Eventually, Captain Watson acclimated and perfected the art of acting normally. He ate and laughed, playing cards to kill the time – even if the world was blowing up around them.

He had good friends.

And he had the thrill of plunging on; the rush of adrenaline and the constant, certain sense of _purpose_.

Yes, Mycroft (the smug twat) had been completely and absolutely right when he said he missed the battlefield.

But this…he hadn't felt the quiet so keenly in years. For the first time ever, he felt sympathy for Sherlock's yelling 'bored!' through Baker Street before shooting the walls.

Anything to break the suffocating silence.

"Tea?"

He didn't expect a response and didn't get one.

"Any new cases?"

_Well he could always hope._

"Lestrade call at all?"

"_John._"

The army doctor shot him a glare. _Fine. _If the man wanted to box himself up in his own head for another two days, to hell with him. There was enough stress to be had without deliberately subjecting himself to the wanker when he didn't want to join humanity for the precious few seconds it would've taken to interact.

"Right."

His coat rustled as he yanked it from the hook and pulled the door with a bit more force than necessary. _Inevitable_, he thought. _Any moment now. The ginormous git doesn't so much as react when I make sure he doesn't _die_ of dehydration, but any time I actively try and leave –_

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

John wasn't in the mood. At all. He pulled the door shut before Sherlock could say anything else and thumped heavily down the stairs. His shoulder ached with the sudden cold of the hall, but Captain Watson ignored the pain and strode on. They probably needed milk. And food – the specifics of that one mattered less. Anything edible would be acceptable at this point.

* * *

_(11:52am)_

"Sherlock…"

The ball of navy-blue consulting detective curls further into the couch.

"Sherlock…there's a man at the door."

Blue-green eyes flick open. For a split second, he spasms in fear: _it's Him. It's Him it's Him it's Him – JOHN! _But it takes less than a second to really _think _about the situation and to decide that Moriarty probably wouldn't knock politely if it was his intention to kill them immediately. Or visit Baker Street at all when Mycroft had every camera this side of London monitoring them.

_And_,if it is, Sherlock _won't _be found cowering into the back of the sofa.

He rises like the titan and climbs over the table. Mrs Hudson gives him a look that says she's noticed the redness still burning round his eyes; the grubby rawness round his nose, but she says nothing. She puts a hand on his arm, though, as he moves to sit in his chair. It's a small gesture he doesn't acknowledge. But he notices it. He always notices.

His hands clasp placidly on his knees.

"Show him up."

He briefly soothes his stinging mind. A state of emotionless calm descends (not clarity, but he can hardly be too hopeful). Perhaps John is right –

_John…_

– perhaps breaking the homogenous state held intrinsic benefit –

_John…_

"Mr, um, Mr Holmes?"

"Yes, I presume you've come to bother me on the matter of either your daughter's fiancé or your wife's affair? Dull. And yes: it's the lawyer. The fiancé, not your wife. No, your wife's sleeping with the gardener. _Obvious._ That all? Thank you for your time."

He shuts his eyes so he doesn't have to endure the sheer _surprise _of the terminally unobservant. _Good lord, did people see _nothing?

"Ah…"

Sherlock's eyes break open at the same time as he acknowledges the man hasn't moved.

"There's more?" A spike of annoyance clips through him, but there really is nothing else happening and John (_oh John_) was on edge enough without Sherlock tearing his mind apart on the settee.

"_Fine._"

He sighs like the most put-upon man on earth.

"Continue. And for your sake, _don't be boring_."

The man flinches, wits scattered.

"Um –"

"Well?"

"Um –"

"_Agh…_" He makes a noise like a wounded hippo, about to throw the man out, when the man blurts out his problem.

"It's about the girl!"

"What girl?"

"I…don't know." He trails off.

"Well, that's certainly a _riveting_ problem. Good-bye!"

"But, but – she's always there, but it's like no-one else _ever_ notices her! I've gone to talk to her a few times –"

"Why?"

"Because – because," He's flustered. "Because she's always alone!"

"And quite beautiful too I'd imagine to elicit _that_ reaction. Your heart rate and breathing increased and the dilation in your pupils says you are considerably attracted – pre-emptive revenge on your wife? Tedious. Continue."

"What?"

"You go to talk to her," Sherlock says as if he's addressing a five-year-old (he's bored enough to be just a _little _curious by this point). "_Then_ what happens?"

"She vanishes!"

The detective cocks an eyebrow.

"Um," the man looks sheepish after his proclamation. "Um, I mean, I take my eyes off her for a moment –"

The detective's lips curl with distaste.

"– and then she's gone. Like smoke. And no one else sees her go! There's one or two who'd recognise her out of a crowd, but no one knows who she is or where she goes. She's like a ghost."

"Where?"

"Camden Markets. Normally outside this belt buckles store. And…on the corner of Carol Street, outside the park."

"This is worthy of my attention _why?_"

"Well…"

* * *

_**Camden Markets, 12:59pm, September 29**__**th**__** 2013**_

It was always a flurry of colours. All those people and all those stalls…

It'd been raining all day, clouding the concrete with patches of dark and slick puddles where people had trodden it under the awnings. The sounds were bubbling and muffled, swirling around the confused bloke fiddling with his wedding ring as if wondering whether or not to take it off. A paper floated round the floor.

A new version of '_THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES_'.

The tabloids couldn't get enough of it really, though it did wain on most people after a month. They wanted to hear about new cases, but the man with the ring expected that business was still a bit slow. He'd read the blog (along with everyone else) and joined in the torrent of likes to John Watson's impassioned debunking of the whole 'fraud' thing.

Right now he didn't want to know.

He was miserable.

Wrapped up in his own problems.

No time for other things or other people right now.

He wanted to be thoroughly _distracted_ and not have to offer a thing, so here he was. Staring at belt buckles marketed to the under twenties. He'd never felt sadder.

Or older.

Or pudgier, if he was being honest.

He just wanted something to brighten up his life, even a bit, because everything was just _grey _at the moment. One long shade of grey the colour of the blurred and blooming footprints.

He loitered for a long time: fiddled with his phone, took his ring off, put it back on. It was getting to the point where he should've been going home before Mary wondered where he'd been.

The thought brought a hollow, embittered chuckle to his throat. He looked up, glaring at the monochromatic world and feeling just a bit fucking betrayed. The world he'd been promised was nice: you got a job, you met a girl, you had kids, you got old, you died. Had the curriculum changed while he was still in the womb? _Bloody typical._

He still had to go home though. Day after day, he still did it. Maybe he'd confront her about it. Maybe she'd kick him out and move in with the dick she was shagging. Or maybe he'd just get into bed with her every night and dream of when they used to spend hours just staring into each other's eyes…

_That_, right there, _that_ was when he looked up and saw Her.

* * *

_('Pathetic' and 'bastard' coalesce in the description. She dismisses him instantly.)_

* * *

_(September 30__th__) _

He didn't care.

He made an excuse to come back to the markets the next day and stand by the same shop, chatting inanely with the owner until he caught sight of her again. She didn't notice his existence in the slightest, but that didn't stop him looking. He continued the conversation with the shopkeeper until the young man noticed and gently suggested he went home (home to _Mary_).

When he came back the next day, he started to wonder whether he would be considered a stalker. But, then again, he wasn't hiding or secretly following her – _right? _– so it didn't count.

"You wanna know what her name is?"

He hesitated, startled for a moment by the stall keep, then nodded, discarding dignity in favour of desperation.

"Well, I don't know. Leastways she never told me."

"Does she come here often?"

The lad gave him a hard look and refused to speak to him for the rest of the twenty minutes.

* * *

_(Eyes flick between the man and David. The man bumbles off: nice shoes, now muddy; walked through the gardens, lives close-by? Trousers ironed, good shirt, shaved, tie; wants to impress? Possible. Disguise: told his wife he was going into the office? More likely. Accountant…no, bursar. Rutgars campus. Tie with robot sheep speaks volumes. In-keeping, but the carpel tunnel on his left hand and the adjusted resting position of the phalanges says administration not research. Not sleeping well. Outfit nice, but not new. Eighteen months. Tightening the belt? And yet tending the garden? Remnants of dirt on the cuff, but not under the nails. Called in help? …garden wedding? Tsk. Not exactly happy about it, either. Why…? _

_Not sure. _

_Two creases on the trousers. Ironed twice. Not work. No change there for a long time. No promotion prospects if he's worrying about money. Something else to dress up for? Date – no. Not likely to take a wife he suspects of infidelity to a dinner he can't afford. A different office then?_

_Lawyer. Daughter's marrying the lawyer? _

_But…ah. Didn't tell _him_ that. Clever little manipulation, if a little short sighted of the daughter – daughter, not son (if it was a son he'd be far less likely to be preparing his _own_ garden). One child. Wife cheating on him (most likely with the help, all things considered). Middle-aged. Lonely. Nothing nefarious, save for the clumsy deception._

_Harmless.)_

* * *

_(October 1__st__)_

He came back the next day.

And the next.

And she never noticed him once.

* * *

_(Always careful to be seen in the same place. Illusion of regularity. Reduces questions.)_

* * *

_(October 7__th__)_

It took a week, but he finally worked up the courage to approach her. He straightened up, all charm and (_oh fuck he felt sadder than all sad_) took a couple of steps towards her. He blinked once or twice before steeling himself for the task.

That was when he noticed she'd gone. Just gone.

As in, on second _there_, the next _not there_.

"Where'd she go?"

"Don't ask me. She goes where she wants."

She did it again the next time he tried. He no longer cared whether it was creepy or not; he tried to follow, to see how and where she disappeared off to.

He didn't give up after the third time. That was that day that he saw her on Carol Street.

She looked at him then: her eyes were like the green ocean. It rooted him to the spot and he lost sight of her long before he could even move. He began to think he was going mad. His wife went on about the horrific murders in the paper – how she was afraid.

But it barely registered.

* * *

_(Cultivated obsession. Useful?)_

* * *

_(October 11__th__)_

Something wasn't right. She wasn't there.

And he wasn't the only one looking.

He wasn't paranoid: there was a man in a suit sticking out like a sore thumb, asking round for a description. He watched this _suit_ menacingly (not caring that he looked completely insane).

Oh, but it _was_ completely insane – the man was probably police!

He even ended up stumbling hard into a bystander as he gawped at this would-be-secret-assassin-person, knocking the poor bloke's cap askew. He apologised profusely and tried to decide where 'up' and 'down' had suddenly gone.

The bloke he'd knocked into just laughed; asked why he was so preoccupied. He tried to come up with an honest answer – _any answer!_ – but none came.

His marriage was going to fall apart.

He was chasing a girl who, at best, looked no older than twenty.

In the end, he just went mute and settled for looking utterly miserable.

The bystander took his earphones out and looked at him properly. He was quite short, everything considered, and he gave the man such a look of sympathy that for a moment it made everything seem not so bad. Made him feel like confiding in a complete stranger. It'd be better than coming home and blurting it all out to his wife. The bloke looked so trustworthy – in the way someone at the pub would.

_God _he wished he was there right now.

In fact, he was about to spill when a flash of auburn hair caught his eye. It was like the flickering of a fire, and he forgot everything else in an instant. He stuttered an excuse. He couldn't see her anymore, but he stumbled and pushed his way through the crowd to where she'd been.

He was frantic; just a _sighting._

And then he felt the press of soft lips to his.

Hands clutching at his coat.

She was shivering, frightened, but pushing bravely onwards. He was so shocked, it took him a moment to respond and start guiding the eager-but-clumsy kiss. He took her in his arms and moaned (whether with the sheer relief or with a spike of something else he couldn't tell) wrapping her up with himself. She wound her fingers into his jacket, eyelids fluttering open and shut. After a few seconds he felt her tongue sweep, soft and needy, over his lips and fervently accepted the invitation.

He opened his mouth and plunged his tongue into hers.

_That_ was when she shuddered to a surprised stop. In fact she shut her mouth so quickly, he blinked. What had he done wrong? There were warning bells going off somewhere in the back of his mind, but he paid them no heed as she gave him the most beautiful, most reassuring smile he'd ever seen. She took his hand and curled into his side, steering them out, all the while gazing up at him as if he was the brightest man on earth. In fact, they'd got as far as St Martin's Gardens before he realised she was walking him home.

Wait…_what?_

He stopped.

He was about to protest avidly – his wife, for god's sakes! His daughter's wedding! – but the girl was already stepping away, face utterly void of emotion. She turned on her heel and walked across the park.

She was gone long before he could register what had happened.

* * *

_**221B Baker Street, 12:04pm, October 20**__**th**__** 2013**_

"So it took you a little over week to overcome your guilt and decide that she was probably taking advantage of you?"

"There's no need to rub it in, Mr Holmes!"

"Clearly."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Are you going to take the case?"

"Of the very pretty woman who, rather than _fall _into your arms, decided to manipulate you for her own reasons, in the process outwitting you and whomever else may have been watching her? Hardly a great _feat _and at best a six. Good day!"

"But –"

"Get out."

"Mr Holmes!"

_Buzz._

_**Have you taken the case? – JW**_

Sherlock frowns. _Mrs Hudson. _Oh, she knew – of course she knew! And eventually she'd tell John and John would leave and that couldn't happen because _John couldn't leave. _Was it so very necessary for her to _put her nose in? _Damn her!

_**It'll be good for you – JW**_

_**If you're bored, all you had to do was say so – SH**_

"Mr Holmes!"

"I _was_ under the impression you were at least competent enough see yourself out, kindly do so."

_**Sherlock! - JW**_

The detective listens to the man stumbling agitatedly down the stairs. He leans back (ignoring the texts) and wonders what motivated him to move in the first place.

_**Sherlock? - JW**_

_**Sherlock i know you're reading these – JW**_

_**Fine – JW**_

He scowls. Fingers steeple beneath his chin. He tries to will himself into a state of lucidity. It takes seventeen minutes before he realises he's waiting for the phone to go off again. _Dull. _He picks it up, examines the messages, and replaces it on the table. He thinks about John. He thinks about the mysterious girl and snorts at the level of intelligence required to have one over on the man who just left.

His mind keeps spinning however, and comes inescapably back to John.

He doesn't move for a long time.

* * *

_(Camden Markets, 1:24pm)_

John walked for much longer than he'd intended. All he'd wanted to do was to get out of the house – _just for a bit, was that so much to ask? _No, scratch that. If he was being honest, really honest, what he wanted was for things to go back to normal.

To the way they were.

To the way they were _before. _

Everything was such a mess, and now this? True, the dust had finally settled between them, but he really wasn't in the mood for one of Sherlock's silent episodes. Not when he so _badly _needed for them to _talk_.

He pulled his jacket close against the biting wind. Times like these he almost missed the desert sun and the way the heat never seemed to leave the dusty earth. Comforting, in its own way. Then again, no desert on earth would ever hold Sherlock. The man was as pale as the moon – imagining him with a tan was enough to make John laugh.

And therefore, by process of elimination, he would never feel that neverless heat beneath him and call it home. Because Sherlock wouldn't be there.

_Because Sherlock had to be there for it to be home?_

He stopped for a moment. Wondered when _exactly_ he'd started thinking like that. He sighed heavily and ran a hand hard over his face, rubbing at the skin. He felt as if he'd been strung up by the ligaments and left to rot. _God _he just wanted the lull to break – no! _Nonono_ he _didn't_, he didn't want that because he didn't want the storm to come, didn't _ever_ want that to land because…

_Because last time it almost broke him. Permanently. Last time…_

He pressed his eyes shut and tried to ignore the surge from the depths of his chest and the vaults he thought he'd locked tight. Whether it was panic, or grief, or anger, or just the sheer (unfulfillable) need to wrap his arms around his very _not _dead best friend and not let go, it all seemed to break free and cocoon his heart.

He no longer cared whether it was normal for a best friend, he just _needed _it. _Needed_ the irrefutable proof that he was _alive _and not just the product of John's inability to live without him.

_Where had that come from?_

Jesus, everything was in a muddle. Caught up together until nothing made sense anymore. Without thinking about it, he ducked into the madness of Camden Market (_how the hell had he ended up here?_) and moved deftly through the crowd. If there was one thing he could be sure of, it was that no one would see him here. He blended in better than a single rat in a pack: absently imitating everyone else, moving through.

It felt extremely disquieting – the noise of the _ordinary _and _every day –_ but he forced himself to calm down; to observe the small changes and keep a cool head. He smiled slightly as he remembered the street markets in Kabul. Why that memory was comforting now, he'd never know, but he'd learned there to see without being seen.

Not quite the same as _observing _– _'Ever you see but do not observe!' – _but something closer to being _aware_. And with his hyper-sensitised nerves, John saw everything.

The bag dropped to rummage for a wallet.

The man who'd stopped to talk on his phone.

The way the crowd seethed with currents and eddies that showed the quickest path to any particular place.

He ran a hand over the trestle bearing picture frames on the pretext of watching the path to the back doors. The action made him feel mildly better. Then he caught the security camera swivelling in his direction and it took all the self-control he had not to pull the fingers.

_Bloody Holmeses._

He took out his phone and had to think hard for a long moment about what he was going to say.

_**Tell your brother to stop spying on me – JW**_

And then,

_**I mean it! – JW**_

He walked round a bit more, half his mind on the crowd, other half back in Baker Street.

_**Don't suppose i'll find body parts in the fridge again? – JW**_

_**Just so i have a heads up – JW**_

_**Pun intended – JW**_

He realised he'd been walking in what was essentially a massive circle with his phone out, staring at the screen.

_Shit. _

And Mycroft had probably recorded the whole thing.

_Double shit. _

Not that he'd bloody done anything wrong! He was just texting Sherlock for Christ's sake!

"Girlfriend troubles?"

_Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_

"Nope. Nope; no, not girlfriend." He said very abruptly, words tumbling so fast out of his mouth, his tongue barely recognised the syllables. The youth who'd asked raised an eyebrow. Then frowned.

"Hey, aren't you that bloke? The one from the whole Sherlock Holmes thing?"

John groaned softly. It was bad enough with the reporters camped outside (when Mycroft wasn't scaring them off) without every muppet with a newspaper gawping at them. So, given the situation, he opted for legging it before he started shouting at a complete stranger.

Or a security camera.

"Mmm." He nodded noncommittally, before ducking into the slipstream, letting it carry him behind the next stall.

"Hero mob?"

"What?"

"Always tough."

"I'm…sorry?"

"Oh – just thinking out loud. Don't mind me. No one else does. And if they do they soon don't, if you get what I mean."

"Um, I suppose." John frowned, focussing on the man behind the trestle covered in belt buckles.

"Dave."

The young man confirmed the name with a smile and a handshake. John took it, eyebrows still knitted. Dave, however, seemed to accept his wary look as a confirmation and the smile widened. "Good to meet you Dr Watson. I'm Raz's friend."

John started.

"Oh, you mean…Raz…"

"Raz the taz with the az, yeah that Raz. The painter." He added at John's confused look. The army doctor bristled.

"He still owes me a bloody court visit."

"Yeah, heh. He told me about that."

"How do you know him?"

"Went to school together, we did. People always used to say I was the clever one."

John couldn't think of anything in particular to say to that.

"So what you doing here then?"

"Just…walking, I suppose."

"Sherlock Holmes driving you mad?"

John paused.

"You've worked for him?"

"Once or twice. Well once. The other time it was kind of me and Raz on the same thing."

"What was it?"

"Nothing much. Just a bit of information he was having trouble getting." Dave shrugged, though John noticed the peculiar way in which he revealed then withheld information, deliberately giving blunt, straight-to-the-point titbits but not more. Must drive the police insane. Without warning a smile tugged his lips when he realised he was just Sherlock's type of person.

_Oh…this must be what madness felt like…_

"So, you back in business then, now he's…you know…back?"

"Err…"

John realised that other than he, Sherlock, Greg and Mycroft's department, no one knew about Moriarty's return. Or the fact that people could apparently travel through time now, but that was at least a matter for academics. That _the_ madman was loose on the world once more and most people were just blundering round their lives as if _nothing was wrong _–

"Hey? You alright, mate?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, I'm fine." _He was so far from fine. _"Just, um…"

"Yeah, yeah, alright, I didn't mean to pry." Dave muttered quietly, releasing John from his gaze. John stared at him with unexpected gratitude and gave him a real smile this time.

"Well, it was nice talking to you." He said honestly.

"Same here."

He was just about to leave when Dave seemed to shift about uneasily, as if unsure whether to say anything. John gave him a strange look, at which point the lad seemed to make a decision and turned full to face him.

"Look," Dave started awkwardly. "I don't…I don't suppose you've got any missing persons…_things_…started up?"

"None that I can think of, sorry."

_Well there _was_ Anna Harper, but that _–

"Oh, just asking." He seemed to lose his nerve. "No abuse cases? Course not, too obvious to Sherlock I suppose. Should be a hell of a lot more obvious to the rest of these morons –" he waved at the crowd. "– but, ah well."

John looked at Dave.

His eyes skimmed over the youthful, yet care-worn face and tried to _see _what Sherlock saw. Slight wrinkling round the lips: smoked when he was younger. High blood pressure and stiff neck from the way he held himself: stress. He tried to see other things, but quickly realised he was doing what he always did in that he missed almost everything of any importance. Disappointment bloomed in the pit of his stomach, as well as a kind of sinking feeling. Like coming down from a rush.

"Just thought I'd…check" Dave finished lamely.

"Something happen?"

"Not…well, yeah, but it's not _new. _Often wondered if Sherlock could help and now it turns out he _could…_bugger. Look, forget it. Go on. I'll know where to find him if I change my mind."

John blinked in confusion, wishing more than ever that he could read Dave's concern in the pockets of his jacket. But it was obvious the young man wasn't going to say any more and John wasn't the sort of person to push.

He nodded crisply, smiling as he departed. Well, that wasn't so bad…

_(Him. Of course it's him. But not him. Him, but not him. Him, not him. Him, not…not…She can't. She won't. Doesn't quite make sense why. Doesn't quite make sense anyway. Wool, earl grey, soft warmth; easy to want and forget. Why? Why why why why? She wants to scream. Needs to scream. Can't. CAN'T!)_

A rustle to the left made him look up, hyper-awareness back with a crashing jolt. The hair on the back of his neck stood painfully on end as he did a three-sixty, scanning all lines of approach. It took longer than it should've done to notice the blind spot: behind a pillar and beneath a camera. Invisible, even to Mycroft.

Especially to Mycroft.

His muscles grow taut. He couldn't make an obvious defensive move, not with so many people milling round. All his instincts screamed. A choir of demented peacocks. Plans formed and disintegrated as he reached for his gun…

The attack…never came.

Before he could react, something small and warm launched from the pillar and attached itself to his midriff, squeezing him with all its might. Speech failed him. He could feel the tickle of hair under his chin as the seconds ticked back into sequence. Tremulously, almost more afraid than he would've been if this was an assailant (because it wasn't, definitely wasn't, he _knew _how to distinguish civilians for Christ's sake) he looked down.

A mass of voluminous auburn curls, wild and tangled, bounced down an astonishingly thin frame. The girl was almost his height, yet she had tucked herself near perfectly to squash her face into his right shoulder. He could feel her hands fisted in the back of his jacket and his breath hitched unnaturally as he acknowledged her pressing every inch of her body to his. Yet it wasn't a sexual gesture, by any stretch of the imagination. Without thinking about it, he closed the protective circle and drew his arms around her.

"Hey," he breathed softly, rubbing gentle circles into her shoulder blades. "Hey."

He felt her mouth open wide against his shoulder, but no sound came out. After a moment, she shut it again, holding him ever harder, seeming to breathe him in.

Then she was gone. Without warning. She ripped from his grasp as if burned her and vanished a moment later.

"_What the…_"

He stood gaping. Unmoving. After a second of complete whiteout, his brain finally came up with: _someone that size shouldn't have been that strong._

Okay.

Okay.

* * *

_(Baker Street, 1:56pm)_

He pulls the skull off the mantle. Even _it_ isn't quiet.

The world continues to scream at him and chaos reigns.

It's freezing.

The central heating is perfectly bearable; John alone in London (might as well be a world away) is not.

He tries to calm down.

He presses himself into the settee.

It fails.

_Buzz._

_Ignore it._ Like he's done so far today.

Like he's ignoring the almost constant symptoms of an impending panic attack.

_Buzz._

Fingers clutch at hair. Fingers slip over the violin. Feet bang hard on the coffee table. Onto the floor. Head spins.

Won't stop. _Won't stop._

_Buzz._

Head snaps. He almost flies. Something falls and breaks, but he doesn't know what it is.

_**Right, something weird just happened – JW**_

_**Sherlock, plz answer! – JW**_

_**Sherlock a girl just hugged me and then disappeared – JW**_

_**Trust me on this, somethings wrong - JW**_

_**Please – JW**_

_**Sherlock? – JW**_

The consulting detective stares at the screen. '_Please_'? Please what? What was Sherlock supposed to offer him?

He thinks. _He thinks. _

A thousand things clamour into his head.

He resists the urge to fall to the floor – _he won't do it!_

Teeth clench.

He tortures his transport until it holds firmly together (although really he knows it's not his body's fault, _but it is it is!_).

_**Where? – SH**_

_**Camden Markets – JW**_

Slowly..._slowly_…he feels his heart rate slow to a bearable thud. And, dawning after what seems an ice age, is a smile.

_Oh, his dear John._

_**We have a case - SH**_

* * *

_**A.N: Edit .1 or something. Reformatted and checked over everything; cemented the timeline in my head. Heh - first go at a whodunit (think I already mentioned that) and I think I'm going to have to be a bit surer of what I'm describing before I put it down in future. Makes for a much better clue trail. Anyways, reviews at all? *flutters eyelashes***_


	7. Chapter Two: In Morning's Light

_**The Disappearance of the Lady of Camden**_

**In Morning's Light**

_**London, Camden Borough, 2:48pm, October 20th 2013**_

"Look, I highly doubt this girl's a runaway from some conspiracy theorist's wet dream." The ex-army doctor grumbled as they trudged back on his own steps. "I mean, she got her own back on her stalker before it got nasty, so what?"

"And she latched on to you."

Sherlock's tone hadn't lost its certainty since he'd rattled off the man's tale, stalling john in the street half-way between the markets and home. He'd given John the we-both-know-what's-going-on look. John scowled in frustration.

"Again, _why _is that important?"

"You were very adamant about it an hour ago."

"I was just surprised."

"Why?"

"What?"

"What surprised you?"

"Um…the fact she ran up to me and hugged me and ran off?"

Sherlock scoffed.

"Oh come on, you're a doctor for god's sake! Strange people. Strange behaviour. All look to you for help."

"You don't say." John muttered under his breath, but Sherlock didn't halt.

"This is different. You said something was wrong and given your instincts as both a soldier and a doctor, I'm inclined to believe you. Add to that the fact that this girl has exhibited abnormal behaviour patterns in the past and you might appreciate better my curiosity."

"So…what do we do when we find her?"

The detective gave him a look suggesting he'd praised Anderson (or something similar). Somewhere between disbelief and horror with a dash of severe annoyance thrown in. John groaned, rolling his eyes to the dull sky. Well at least he'd got the daft bastard out of the flat. John had begun to wonder whether he'd manage to get Sherlock off the sofa.

"What I mean is," he clarified quickly. "She hasn't done anything wrong, and unless you're desperate to find that bloke again, we don't actually have someone to report in to."

The detective didn't answer, merely ducking beneath the awnings and into the markets, already several paces ahead. He sighed heavily. If possible, the place was even more packed and claustrophobic than before, yet Sherlock seemed to navigate it like the ghost they were after. John jogged to catch his slip stream (ignoring the stares and then _double-stares _they were attracting). For some reason it was easier with Sherlock only a few steps in front and within minutes they were in front of Dave's shop again.

"Oh, wotcha Mr Holmes." He said jovially. John was forced to try and remember the last time (excluding Angelo) someone was actually _happy _to see the Consulting Detective. His reception back at the yard wasn't exactly enthusiastic and more than one of John's friends had offered to punch him in the face. General opinion was to prepare for war. Then again, Dave hadn't come across as the 'general opinion'. John smiled, despite himself. It was nice when someone had half a brain and saw Sherlock for the brilliant (albeit eccentric) man he was.

Dave noticed. John then noticed Dave noticing (and smirking) and spent the next thirty seconds _not _smiling and _not _blushing.

_Bugger._

"So what can I do for you today? What business can I offer?"

_No assuming Sherlock's here for pleasure_, John thought.

"I need someone identified." The detective responded directly.

"Oh?"

"A woman. Young. Curly auburn hair. Likely been here often over the past month."

Dave stiffened.

"So you know her?" John pressed, instantly paying more attention.

"Yeah…" the youth said carefully. "I know her. Leastways, I've seen her round, you know? Wouldn't say that means I precisely _know _her. But, you'd be hard pressed to find anyone else 'round here who knows she exists."

"Who is she?"

"Don't know." Dave looked Sherlock straight in the eye. "Don't know her name; where she comes from. What she does. I heard a rumour she shacked up with some rich skirt up near Regent's Park, but that might just be talk. Raz thinks she's in with the meth ring."

"And why's that?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Because," and here Dave hesitated. "She's a little bit…" he flicked a finger in circles round his left ear. "…funny."

"Anything else."

"No. There _was _a bloke trailing 'round after her a couple of weeks back. S'pose he crawled back to his wife, did he? Kept asking about her."

"What did you tell him?"

"Less than what I just told you."

Sherlock continued the staring match for a long few moments, but to John's surprise he eventually straightened up, seemingly satisfied.

"What about the man he talked to? In front of your stall?"

"Oh…him. No on special."

There was a long pause.

"So it was just paranoia then?" John confirmed flatly. "_Right_."

"I…don't think she'll be round here again." Dave looked between them with a slight frown.

"Why do you say that?" Sherlock asked sharply. Dave shrugged.

"So, all a red herring then?" The ex-soldier sighed. "Not even a suspicious looking lout in a suit and sunglasses?"

"Oh yeah," Dave said off-handedly, causing John to whip his attention back to his casually cheery voice. "But that's not unusual. Get all sorts coming in here. Some are even out of costume." His eyes flicked wryly up Sherlock's replacement belstaff.

"Right." John said again, shrugging his jacket further up his shoulders. There was something about this that still unnerved him, but he shot Sherlock an I-told-you-so look all the same, turning back to the youth behind the trestle-counter. "Thanks Dave."

"No trouble." He smiled genuinely at both of them. "Funny," he said quietly as they turned to leave. "How quickly people forget a face."

John didn't know what to say to that.

"I'm…sorry?"

"Oh, nothing. Always at your disposal, Mr Holmes."

* * *

"Um…"

Clever. Always clever; easy to forget he's just as blind as everyone else.

"He…_wasn't_ lying to us." John concludes tentatively. Sherlock tries not to snort. He fails.

"Dave's very good at choosing his words. What he told us wasn't lies, but neither was it the whole truth."

"No." The response is immediate. At least John isn't _that _blind. The detective sighs lightly, considering on the one hand that the girl was likely no one special anyway, despite Dave's obvious attempts to protect her, and on the other that he indeed feels a little better for leaving the house. He also considers an experiment for lifting the salival DNA traces off of John's jacket (though with dust and skin particle contamination, it would probably be pointless) and continues.

"When I asked him the question of 'who' he answered by looking straight at my face. He didn't lie – there were none of the other mannerisms present, thus that conclusion is without enough evidence – but his answer still concerned him enough to check my reaction to it.

"The only answer that was close to being a lie was about the man in the markets. The way he tensed unconsciously, glancing up to the left, pupil contraction – he recognised him. Partly, at least. But his immediate dismissal indicates either he mistook him for someone else or no longer considers him a threat."

"And…and the girl?"

"Obvious signs of attraction, not to mention that's the most well-_groomed _I've seen him in quite a while. But he's certainly telling the truth when he says he doesn't really know."

"What about the hair?" Sherlock stops. "On his sleeve…"

John suddenly looks unsure. The detective feels as if parts of his hard drive have blue-screened and he can't for the life of him stop the ridiculous grin spreading over his face.

"Ah, yes. Fresh if the tensility is anything to go by. He's in contact with her, despite not being privy to her personal details."

"You trust him, don't you?" John says dryly. "Is that why you're not worrying about this?"

Sherlock feels a headache coming on, accompanied by a wave of weariness.

"Partly," he admits, forcing his thoughts to temporary order for John's benefit. "Dave is a difficult man to fool, contrary to the impression most people glean from him. If he believed her to have nefarious motives, he would've revealed so. As it is," he hesitates for a fraction of a second. "You are right. I trust his judgement."

John looks briefly astonished.

"That's high praise coming from you." He's pleased for some reason. "Nice bloke. For a friend of your Raz's, anyway."

"Indeed."

Sherlock refrains from saying what else is on his mind. Nothing good could come of it. He refrains from mentioning, for instance, the fact that Dave co-ordinated much of the Homeless Network's operations in his absence. Especially concerning John's security (did the Fat Git really expect him to trust John to the incompetence and bull-headed ignorance of his department by itself?).

In any event, Dave of the Camden Markets had proven exceptionally useful and, more importantly he thinks now, surprisingly loyal. Whether it was because he grew fond of either John or Sherlock, he can't tell. He suspects the former. When Sherlock returned from the dead (from dismantling the Spider's web, anyway) Dave spoke to him. It was neither insistent, nor condescending. But unlike Mycroft's account, Dave didn't omit anything or cushion details in euphemism. He told Sherlock how it was.

How John had been.

And Sherlock thinks Dave understands. Just a little bit. A sentiment that yet proves…surprisingly easing.

"You alright, mate?"

"Hmm?"

"You've gone quiet."

"I need to think."

"'bout what? Promises promises; we still have no case! And I only just barely got you out of the flat!"

The detective sighs dramatically and turns to glare.

"Simply because it is necessary for your plebeian mind to occupy itself at regular and scheduled intervals, that does not mean my attention _must _comply to some pre-ordained timetable! Furthermore, the fact of my having no case does not mean I have nothing to think about, _shocking _as that is for you. So would you _mind_ shutting up for one blessed moment, or is that _really _expecting too much today?"

He doesn't mean for it to come out so venomously. However his taut nerves seem to conspire. He has to hold his expression perfectly still to stop the instant regret surfacing on his face, forced to watch as John flinches. He pulls up short. When this business with guilt and _regret _started he can only hazard a guess, but it is _irritating _beyond belief.

Almost as irritating as the fear.

"Fine." John's voice is even. His mouth is a hard line. Then suddenly he turns a half circle and walks away, explanation void.

"John?" Panic.

"John!"

"If you don't want my _plebeian mind _bothering you further, that's fine by me!"

"John!"

"I'm off to see Sarah."

_That _shuts him up. For twelve seconds. During which time the waning storm kicks to 'Tornado' and threatens to take him up along with it.

"_Sarah?_"

He doesn't answer.

"John!"

He flags a cab. He takes out his phone. Then he's gone.

_Gone._

Sherlock is a mile into the chase before he realises. His knees bend. He sinks down the wall of the alley, head falling into his hands. He's _freezing._

This _had _to stop.

Or he could simply float away on cocaine; it would certainly be less painful.

He's almost tempted.

* * *

(_Vulnerable. Out in the open. Not good. NOT GOOD. But not defenceless either; no he is quite safe for the moment left to his own devices. Not for her to interfere. He's…she doesn't feel overwhelmed as she before. In fact she feels almost calmed.)_

* * *

His eyes flick open. He doesn't move, but scans the alley, all senses, collecting data. Everything returns negative. And yet the hairs on the back of his neck stand harshly on end.

He knows John would be able to identify the instinct.

* * *

(_Can't see. But knows._)

* * *

He rises slowly to his feet and calls down the fire escape. He leaps onto it. The metal grates. He looks up and down the area noting every sound, every tiny movement. He knows even the stillest, most patient moth twitches before the hunting bat. Only a matter of –

* * *

(_Suddenly she's not so invisible; _he _sees everything. Sherlock. Sherlock the Consulting Detective. CD. She feels serene…_)

* * *

He stops.

* * *

(_Bollocks. Move. MOVE._)

* * *

There's a flurry of movement, but it's over so fast it is impossible to catch more than a glimpse. He follows, scrambling higher and higher, cresting the rooftop; leaping, descending. He recognises the route, but he's too far behind. The shadow slips away up ahead. Then it's gone.

He turns, coattails flapping – four options: stopped. Doubled back (unlikely considering lines of sight). Continued on current route (also unlikely he didn't spot it). Deviated.

The world screams at him, but this time he welcomes it. It's stopped being a storm and started being a database again. The programmes whir to life, lines on lines of information; stored, processed. Conclusion: he is alone. Supposition: the shadow changed course.

Radiant possibilities follow, painting themselves on his internal map like road lines.

Deduction: the shadow knew the ways of alleys and rooftops as well as he did judging by their confidence and ability to stay ahead of him. An assassin? But assassins weren't usually that clever, or unwilling to confront their target. Besides, a sniper (most likely given position and skillset) would have needed more room to avoid the camera at the end of the alley. A spy? Again, not usually that clever.

Yet if they were truly adept in navigating the rooftops, it would make little sense for them to stay there with him on their tail. Not if they were professional (had to be, that level of patience and dexterity). No, they would seek to draw an advantage.

Spinning round, he drops to ground level the other side of a wall (solid brick – no line of sight) and rushes into the open.

Busy street.

_Someone quick._

_Someone nervous._

_Someone in dark clothing._

_Someone with a clear gait._

_Someone who doesn't belong._

He sees no-one. No-one out of place. Nothing.

* * *

(_Work to be done_.)

* * *

_(New Scotland Yard, 3:22pm)_

"Thanks for this, Greg."

"Yeah, well, I could use the distraction. Talk about paperwork. And the press are hounding us about not even having a hint of a suspect. Not like we can tell them."

"Criminal Mastermind Cheats Bullet To The Head?" John shook his own as he brought the coffee to his lips. "Yeah, I can see how that'd go down well."

"So how are you two doing, then?"

"How do you think." The ex-army doctor took a large gulp and grimaced bitterly.

"You're both strung out."

"Yeah, tell me something I don't know."

"There's no need to get snippy with me!"

John paused, aware that the hand not clenched around the coffee was spasming slightly every few seconds. He hated it. But it wasn't Greg's fault, not by a long shot, and he hadn't turned up at his workplace in the middle of the afternoon to have another argument, tempting as it was to vent his frustrations. He frowned miserably into the cup.

"Sorry."

"Hey," the DI leaned across his desk to pat his arm. "I know it's hard, but just have to keep our heads. We can beat him –"

"How?" John shook his head, looking the Lestrade dead in the face. "Somehow I don't think another Houdini's going to work, do you? And if…" he broke off suddenly, the weight of the past week – all the _awareness _and _tension _– seeming to crash over him. It felt like suddenly sinking to the bottom of a river with all the water pressing down above him.

"We. Will. Beat. Him." Greg said it so forcefully, John was taken aback. "Believe me, mate," he continued quietly. "We're _not _losing him again. I promise you."

"I don't…"

"I know."

John nodded sharply, walling a damn round himself. It wouldn't hold long, but it would at least get him home.

"Well, thanks again."

"Get some sleep." _While you can _hung in the office air like a hippo. "I'll call you when I need you."

With a last nod, John left. He briefly considered actually texting Sarah at the clinic, but decided against it in the end. She didn't need to be dragged into this. They hadn't really spoken since the conversation in June, and while he was grateful for her understanding, he had no real desire to climb back into her life. Best for all concerned, really.

He'd only said her name to stop the ignoble berk carrying on. Somehow mentioning an old girlfriend – any old girlfriend – did the trick. Not that he wouldn't pay dearly for it when he returned, but he _needed _the break. Just away from the looming threat, the still healing wound between them and the confusion of his life in general.

A few short hours of _normality_.

He could try Molly, he supposed. But their relationship had swan-dived since he'd discovered she'd helped Sherlock fake the whole thing. Not so much because of that fact alone (or the betrayal he felt just thinking of Sherlock trusting Molly, _Molly _of all people, over _him_) but because of the fact that she lied to his face – multiple times. She'd comforted him. Made him tea.

Made him eat.

Stayed with him in case he…

…and _all_ that time she hadn't said _one word_ or dropped _one _hint. Not that it was her fault – Sherlock had all but threatened her by the sounds of it. _Too dangerous _he said. _Too risky_.

This from the man who, when threatened with a gun, publically discloses the said gunman's propensity for wearing women's clothing on top of his drug habit.

Odd, then, that after two months, John had found the heart to start forgiving Sherlock and not Molly. It might have had something to do with trust. He didn't blame Molly per se, but he couldn't _trust _her again after something like that. Possibly never would. His fault for misjudging her; for assuming. Sherlock, though…even through his recent anger, John _saw _how upset the detective really was. The arrogant bastard thought John didn't notice when he spent hours in his room, only to emerge face bloodless, glancing hurriedly round at John. He'd told him, the day after the _incident_ that part of the reason John couldn't know was because of the possibility the ex-soldier would've charged off after him.

The thought of what Sherlock had faced; what had made him want to protect him so _badly_, was both touching and terrifying.

He was still too thin.

And the fuck if John was going to let him destroy them both if lashing out was what he wanted to do. They needed something. First they needed to calm down, and then they needed something to focus on.

He thought of Mike.

But he'd just suggest the pub and John knew that could only make things worse, tempting as it was to drift away _literally _for a bit.

In the end, as painful as it was to admit, all he wanted was somewhere quiet with a cup of tea and undemanding company. Company that wouldn't fuss, or pry, or compound his nerves in any way, shape or form.

Fine time to start keeping a pet, perhaps? Wasn't that what therapy suggested?

_Then again a pet wouldn't spontaneously start playing Schubert, the notes never failing to whisk his mind away when he needed it most..._

_God _it was all a mess.

By the time he got home, the autumn chill had started setting in earnest and he was done really caring what he did. He acknowledged Sherlock where the detective sat hunched over his microscope. Then, foregoing dinner, marched straight up to his room.

There Captain Watson laid down to sleep.

* * *

_(Baker Street, Unknown Time)_

John dreams of chasing Sherlock across a city in the Middle East. He yells his name, but he can't catch up. The pain is so intense it stabs through him like a knife, forcing him to his knees. The hot dust scratches, and the memory of his worst days in Afghanistan surfaces without warning. His shoulder is more than on fire. It's like someone's taken tungsten, heated it to nearly liquid, and pressed it to the muscle _underneath_. He's screaming.

"_It's just a dream, John_._ It's alright._"

And with that the pain stops. Everything is alright. He's in the dark, but the voice is _there_.

He's going to be alright.

* * *

_(3:18am)_

He listens to the man beyond the door.

He doesn't acknowledge his own, racing heart. He will stay where he is.

He responds to his name.

It occurs to him to play something soothing; to call Mrs Hudson. It occurs to him to leave his sentiment were it was and _damn it_. It occurs to him that he's opening John's door, crouching at his side and watching his torment without ever having decided first.

He knows he shouldn't touch John. For any number of reasons. But he couldn't simply shake the man anyway, the likelihood of being perceived as a threat was too high.

He speaks the words in his ear.

He doesn't know why he says them.

Perhaps only a sporadical handful of sleeping hours over an eight day period has a behavioural effect.

He doesn't _acknowledge_ the warmthhe feels pressing against his skin.

He doesn't –

"_Sherlock…_"

He steals a touch. One touch. Because what is he, if not a good thief? The sensation is…different, somehow. Tingling. Perhaps it is circumstantial. But the only thing the detective can compare it to is the movement of the drug after it's left the syringe. And it's _so warm…_

He's disgusted at himself, but he can't stop.

In the end, he sinks to the floor. He knows John didn't see Sarah, which is odd all things considered. No – coffee stain on the edge of his mouth; very particular type too: the Yard. Lestrade. John had clearly wanted _and sought _other company, regardless.

He sighs.

His throat is raw.

He doesn't know how to fix things.

He _wants _to make things better.

And yet every moment the two of them are alone (without the anger or the bitterness) he feels like a ghost. Almost defiantly, he reaches – recklessly – for John's hand as if to prove himself wrong.

All he wants is his own voice. His own little corner of '_alright_'.

He's so tired.

* * *

_**The Lily and Diamond, Holloway Road, 6:55am, 21**__**st**__** October 2013**_

"What the…? Oh _shit_…"

* * *

_(__Baker Street, 10:49am)_

"Bug'r."

"Mfff."

"Sherl'k…"

"Mfff?"

"Sherl'k, pass m'phone?"

"_Mfff_."

"_Miserable gi – _SHERLOCK!"

The consulting detective was up and on his feet faster than a rat out of a trap.

"John." He cleared his throat forcibly as John continued to gape.

"What…_what_…?"

The phone cut in.

"I'll…just be…um," the detective, who'd gone an astonishing shade of salmon-pink, promptly escaped the room, jabbing a hand in the direction of the trilling mobile. John continued to stare after him for several long seconds before lunging for the phone.

"Err, um, John Watson speaking?"

"It's Greg, and before you ask –" John froze in the act of hyperventilating, all peace lost as he held the black plastic in a death-grip. "– it's not anything like that. I've got something for you."

"_Thank god!_"

He heard the dry chuckle at the other end as the wash of relief bled naked in his voice.

"Yeah. Think you'll like this one."

"What you got for us?"

"I'm not even going to _try_ to correct that."

The detective was suddenly loitering in the doorway, clearly ignoring embarrassment in favour of desperate curiosity. Not that John blamed him. For the curiosity, not for sleeping on his floor, _what the hell was the mad bastard doing SLEEPING ON HIS FLOOR?_

"Robbery at a jeweller's. Should've been straightforward given the security on the place, but nothing we've got makes sense."

John nodded as Lestrade gave him the details, the consulting detective watching him intently.

"Right…okay. See you there."

"What is it?"

"Cat burglar by the sounds of it."

"Hmm."

"…what _were_ you doing on my floor?"

"Testing the possibility that sleeping next to you assists the lucidity of my dream-state."

It was a testament to how long he'd been flatmates with Sherlock Holmes that _that _was almost plausible. _Almost._

"We," he gestured emphatically between them as he hunted down and pulled on a pair of socks. "Are going to have another little talk about _boundaries_ when we get back."

The scoff Sherlock left in his wake was only scant decibels above a growl. Again, John frowned after him. There was something indiscernible in the way he'd looked back – he'd have called it panic if it'd been anyone else. As it was, he settled more comfortably on _unnerved_. Which made sense.

He was more than a bit unnerved himself.

Maybe _this _was just how it all chose to manifest itself. _It _being the afore emphasised stress. That fit the facts, didn't it? Or was he now as mad as Sherlock? Weirdly enough, the thought made him smile. He felt…different. Actually, he felt _good_. More than '_a bit good_'. He'd had a solid sixteen hour's sleep for the first time in what _felt _like years.

By _god _he felt more than 'a bit good'.

_Because of Sherlock there?_

Resolute in the knowledge that they would _have _to talk about it after the case, he cobbled together the rest of his clothes and bounded downstairs to grab the still salmon-pink detective and two slices of bread before remembering he'd clean forgot the bread. He swore, and winced before calling for aide.

"Just this once dear, I know how he gets." Mrs Hudson pressed the date scone into his hands as Sherlock strode past, already on his way out the door. "I'm still not your housekeeper."

"Mrs Hudson, you are the Angel of Baker Street, now hurry along John!"

Surprised at the flattery, the remarkable woman fluttered a hand over her heart – allowing Sherlock to grab the ex-army doctor by the elbow and haul him into the waiting cab.

* * *

_(Holloway Road, 11:20am)_

"Good to see you!"

"You just saw him yesterday!" Sherlock stepped over threshold without so much as a by-your-leave, glowering at the pair of them.

"I _meant_ good to see you_ here_. We don't actually _need_ to look like idiots any more than we already do, Sherlock – and for the record I meant good to see _you_ as well, you know." The detective frowned slightly as if this simple statement confused him. John often wondered whether Sherlock was really aware of the friendship Greg extended to him – then again, the man did have a slightly 'different' view of friendship. Not that John was complaining, it was just…

When Sherlock said 'I don't have friends, I've just got one', he had to wonder at just how much he was really saying.

"Owner called us at ten past eight this morning to report a break-in, only –"

"Nothing's been stolen, and nothing broken except the front window."

"Yup." Lestrade seemed almost as eager as they were, even smiling as if they were all getting morning tea and not investigating a crime scene. With a flapping motion, he ushered the uniform out of the way (not that they needed telling) and turned back, dignified frown back in place.

"I'll let you take a look in here. When you're done, I've got something to show you."

"Oh my god, is it really –"

John turned with a sinking feeling to the green-faced young man who was, even now, openly _not staring _at the pair of them. _How much longer would they have to endure it? _Fortunately, Sherlock was already examining the surfaces of the shop's glass display cases, his back to the plod. John wished, then, that he had as little care for what other people thought as the consulting detective did.

Sighing heavily, he watched Sherlock do his work. He examined the countertop, the till, the cases (still intact) and the window, eyes flickering here and there. It was almost mesmerising to see: slight ticks in his face; the tells of information and deductions almost too quick to witness. It was brilliant.

"John, I want you to tell me what you see."

"Oh…um…what _everything?_"

"Of this scene, what do you see?"

"Err…a jewellery shop robbery gone wrong?"

Sherlock brought a finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes as if experiencing the world's worst headache.

"Hey! Let me…um," He scanned the room. "The surfaces are all clean, nothing appears to have been taken, no damage to any of the locks…no damage to the storeroom door, either. So…why would someone want to smash the window?" He muttered, more to himself. Pacing over, he looked at the offending article. The pane had been broken at the bottom with something small or sharp – at least half of it was still intact, meaning that it didn't shatter on impact with something heavy and (judging by the two indents made in the frame) it was hit at least twice to widen the hole. Even then it was quite small.

"Do we know for certain he was even inside the shop? I mean…looking at a broken shop window from the outside, you assume it's been looted, but –"

"Yes." Sherlock was suddenly at his shoulder, eyeing the damage keenly. "This was done precisely enough that there wasn't much residual mess, not enough for the Yarders to notice anyway. Come on, John! _Think! _What are you looking at?"

John's mind whirred, trying to see what he wasn't. It was like trying to play spot the difference with oceans.

"Look at where the glass is."

"It's –" John blinked. His eyes flicked between the shop front and the pavement outside. "Most of the broken glass is out there, not in here." He said finally, having confirmed it. "The window was broken…from the_ inside?_"

"Indeed."

"But…why would someone want to break _out _of a jewellery shop?"

* * *

_**A.N: right, not so stringent editing, but I did re-format it like I did with the previous ones, Also checked back that I didn't loop out a clue element I suddenly thought of (strange things these mystery stories). Reviews?**_


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